Rating: 
Summary: Light in August audio cassette
Review: Be aware that you need a "book cassette adaptor" in order to listen to the tapes on a walkman.
Rating: 
Summary: A highbrow tear-jerker
Review: Faulkner again proved himself a master of American literature with his tragic story of Joe Christmas, a truly unlucky and unloved fellow whose life of rejection has led him to make some truly unwise choices. Crafted in Faulkner's signature intellectual, sometimes verbose, style, this novel is an important examination of some major flaws in the typical American character. We all identify with the characters in this book.
Rating: 
Summary: Drowning
Review: Faulkner is THE most complex author to come out of American Literature. Light in August is a beautifully written book with depths of analysis to which a Proffessor of mine, who speciallizes in Faulkner, cannot even reach. This may be his writing's downfall though, because every word that is read is a treasure trove, so much that it is hard to read a chapter at a time. I nearly drowned. I recommend this book for those who feel like getting down and dirty into a book. I would keep some Sunday comics next to you for breaks.
Rating:
Summary: He writes in color
Review: Faulkner writes in rainbow color. Full of feeling, mortification, and injustice. The character of Joe Christmas is a shockingly tragic figure that seems almost Christlike, and the character of the oversexed Miss Burden is equally sad. There are so many themes you could pull out of this story. It just fascinates me. I think it touches on race relations in a way that's really pretty intuitive for the time period and part of the country Faulkner was coming from. He plays with both fear of black people and fear of female sexuality, all in the same weave. Worth it.
Rating:
Summary: Hope for humanity?
Review: Faulkner's usually troubled and at times brutal writing is interwoven with periodic examples of the best in humankind. In Joe Christmas we see the worst in all of us and the reasons behind it. In this sense Faulkner teaches us a lesson about the difference between explanation and justification. By having Christmas come from seemingly the worst of backgrounds and then committing the worst of crimes creates a stuggle within the reader to understand their own limits of what makes this or that "okay". It is a novel of hope, however, and despite the ruthlessness and cruelty of those on both sides of the law there are characters that are examples of what we, as human should and can be. The true genius of Faulkner lays in the ability he has to lay two extremes and then bring them together into a coherent, poignant, emotional story. Excellent read
Rating:
Summary: Major but flawed
Review: Faulkner's was a self-indulgent, irresponsible, uneven gift. But at his best, as sometimes in these pages, he is a poet and rhapsodist without equal, and we continue to read him. As a rational thinker he was a nullity; he had no practical insights, no social program, no agendum, no framework that could serve as a starting point toward a solution of the problems he so tellingly describes. This became abundantly clear around the time of his winning the Nobel prize for literature, when he disappointed and exasperated followers who were looking to him for guidance as to a beacon. At least Faulkner had the self-knowledge to know that he did not know, did not in fact even want to know. For knowledge was inimical to his art, not-wanting-to-know a precondition for it. That, and bourbon. The bourbon released his inhibitions and silenced his inner editor (its voice had never been loud), unleashing a torrent of words, much of it bilge but some diamonds too. The result in Light in August is an exasperating novel that contains some thirty scattered pages of the highest poetic value and one potentially great character in the person of Joe Christmas. I say this as a man of 54 who has read the book five times in the course of his life, having been introduced to it in high school. Of course I didn't understand much of it then, but its inimitable style and voluptuous confusion have beckoned me back to it.One is attracted above all by the descriptions of the simple processes of life in all their earthy particulars, the negro cabins, the town lights, the smells, everything rank and dark and elemental. Except for Joe Christmas and possibly Gail Hightower, the characters are all stereotypes, especially the women. Intellectually, there is little of substance in the novel, its appeal is entirely emotional. There is a clean, bracing no-nonsense description of hypermasculine elements and experiences to which Joe seems to gravitate naturally. For instance, of McEachern's harness strap ("clean, like the shoes, and it smelled like the man smelled: an odor of clean hard virile living leather") and Joe's rapt expression when being beaten by it; of Joe's preference for the clean, hard air of men. Given his latent homosexuality, one feels Joe would have done much better as a votary of the strap. But there was a problem. Biologically he was wired (...), and no mistake. Even as a child in the orphanage with the dietician he showed this susceptibility: "On that first day when he discovered the toothpaste in her room he had gone directly there, who had never heard of toothpaste either, as if he already knew that she would possess something of that nature and he would find it." He was still too young to understand what Charley was enjoying, but when he came of age he learned that it too, like the toothpaste, was not always sweet ("periodic filth between two moons suspended"). Unfortunately, Joe had no use for the rest of the package and never learned to like and appreciate women as people. This was the root of his troubles with women and by cutting him off from a source of life helped to seal his doom. Several reviewers have stated that Joe had some negro blood. This is an error and is refuted by the evidence given in the book, although it suits Faulkner (if not Joe) to make Joe out as a possible negro and even to foist him off as one. I think Faulkner's device here, of using the negro as the ultimate symbol of the outcast, is a dreadful mistake, so serious as even to call into question his integrity as an artist as well as his understanding of his greatest character. Why? Because it is too easy, too cheap a shot. It's also overkill, since Joe's alienation has already been powerfully delineated by other, artistic means. Raising the N question does great damage by entangling Joe's problem of identity with something completely separate and other. Joe's problem is his alone. Damaged in childhood and partly cut off from the sources of life, he has to renew and rebuild himself to a degree not necessary to his complacent countrymen, who by virtue of their utter mediocrity are granted automatic membership in small, stultifying, inbred towns like the one in which the action unfolds. And it is precisely here in the book that Faulkner begins to stumble, to overreach for a grand synthesis that isn't there. The performance is increasingly over-the-top until eventually artistic control is lost. He doesn't seem to grasp the limitations of his creations, and the book becomes a stew. Faulkner was nothing if not confused, and here alas the confusion damages the work. Where was that inner editor? After the murder, a building momentum sweeps the reader on to the end. However, there is no true catharsis and no real tragedy, only an overreaching for a grand synthesis that fails. The reader is struck by the feeling that something has gone wrong, and on going back finds he has been the victim of a swindle. The book closes with that sucker Byron Bunch in tow with his damaged goods in the form of Lena Grove and her (...) infant. Faulkner seems to be saying that in spite of some mistakes, life has returned to its immemorial path. But if this is salvation, one must be glad for Joe that he is safely dead and out of harm's way. Not everyone is cowed by the eternal feminine, and Joe himself would have no trouble giving the Lena Groves of the world what they deserve -- the back of his hand. So after forty years and five attempts at this book, what of value can I take away? Perhaps some thirty pages of beautiful poetry, and the memory of Joe Christmas. He sought to rebuild and renew himself through the transformative power of hard physical labor and I would like to leave him there, contining now and forever on the roads he freely chose for himself (one of the few things in the book that Faulkner does make clear), that run "through yellow wheat fields waving beneath the fierce yellow days of labor and hard sleep in haystacks beneath the cold mad moon of September, and the brittle stars."
Rating:
Summary: Major but flawed
Review: Faulkner's was a self-indulgent, irresponsible, uneven gift. But at his best, as sometimes in these pages, he is a poet and
rhapsodist without equal, and we continue to read him. As a rational thinker he was a nullity; he had no practical insights, no social program, no agendum, no framework that could serve as a starting point toward a solution of the problems he so tellingly describes. This became abundantly clear around the time of his winning the Nobel prize for literature, when he disappointed and exasperated followers who were looking to him for guidance as to a beacon.
At least Faulkner had the self-knowledge to know that he did not know, did not in fact even want to know.
For knowledge was inimical to his art, not-wanting-to-know a precondition for it. That, and bourbon. The bourbon released his inhibitions and silenced his inner editor (its voice had never been loud), unleashing a torrent of words, much of it bilge but some diamonds too. The result in Light in August is an exasperating novel that contains some thirty scattered pages of the highest poetic value and one potentially great character in the person of Joe Christmas. I say this
as a man of 54 who has read the book five times in the course of his life, having been introduced to it in high school. Of
course I didn't understand much of it then, but its inimitable style and voluptuous confusion have beckoned me back to it. One is attracted above all by the descriptions of the simple processes of life in all their earthy particulars,
the negro cabins, the town lights, the smells, everything rank and dark and elemental. Except for Joe Christmas and
possibly Gail Hightower, the characters are all stereotypes, especially the women. Intellectually, there is little of
substance in the novel, its appeal is entirely emotional. There is a clean, bracing no-nonsense description of hypermasculine elements and experiences to which Joe seems to gravitate naturally. For instance, of McEachern's harness strap ("clean, like the shoes, and it smelled like the man smelled: an odor of clean hard virile living leather") and Joe's rapt expression when being beaten by it; of Joe's preference for the clean, hard air of men. Given his latent homosexuality, one feels Joe would have done much better as a votary of the strap. But there was a problem. Biologically he was wired for pussy, and no mistake. Even as a child in the orphanage with the dietician he showed this susceptibility: "On that first day when he discovered the toothpaste in her room he had gone directly there, who had never heard of toothpaste either, as if he already knew that she would possess something of that nature and he would find it." He was still too young to understand what Charley was enjoying, but when he came of age he learned that it too, like the toothpaste, was not always sweet ("periodic filth between two moons suspended"). Unfortunately, Joe had no use for the rest of the package and never learned to like and appreciate women as people. This was the root of his troubles with women and by cutting him off from a source of life helped to seal his doom. Several reviewers have stated that Joe had some negro blood. This is an error and is refuted by the evidence given in the book, although it suits Faulkner (if not Joe) to make Joe out as a possible negro and even to foist him off as one.
I think Faulkner's device here, of using the negro as the ultimate symbol of the outcast, is a dreadful mistake, so serious as even to call into question his integrity as an artist, or at least his understanding of his greatest character. Why? Because it is too easy, too cheap a shot. It's also overkill, since Joe's alienation has already been powerfully delineated by other, artistic means. Raising the N question does great damage by entangling Joe's problem of identity with something completely separate and other. Joe's problem is his alone. Damaged in childhood and partly cut off from the sources of life, he has to renew and rebuild himself to a degree not necessary to his complacent countrymen, who by virtue of their utter mediocrity are granted automatic membership in small, stultifying, inbred towns like the one in which the action unfolds. And it is precisely here in the book that Faulkner begins to stumble, to overreach for a grand synthesis that isn't there. The performance is increasingly over-the-top until eventually artistic control is lost. He doesn't seem to grasp the limitations of his creations, and the book becomes a stew. Faulkner was nothing if not confused, and here alas the confusion damages the work. Where was that inner editor? After the murder, a building momentum sweeps the reader on to the end. However, there is no true catharsis and no real tragedy, only an overreaching for a grand synthesis that fails. The reader is struck by the feeling that something has gone wrong, and on going back finds he has been the victim of a swindle. The book closes with that sucker Byron Bunch in tow with his damaged goods in the form of Lena Grove and her bastard infant. Faulkner seems to be saying that in spite of some mistakes, life has returned to its immemorial path. But if this is salvation, one must be glad for Joe that he is safely dead and out of harm's way. Not everyone is cowed by the eternal feminine, and Joe himself would have no trouble giving the Lena Groves of the world what they deserve -- the back of his hand. So after forty years and five attempts at this book, what of value can I take away? Perhaps some thirty pages of beautiful poetry, and the memory of Joe Christmas. He sought to rebuild and renew himself through the transformative power of hard physical labor and I would like to leave him there, continuing now and forever on the roads he freely chose for himself (one of the few things in the book that Faulkner does make clear), that run "through yellow wheat fields waving beneath the fierce yellow days of labor and hard sleep in haystacks beneath the cold mad moon of September, and the brittle stars."
Rating:
Summary: My mother is also a fish
Review: Have you ever been to a rock concert and seen the lead guitarist strap on a double guitar? That's what this book is all about, 'cause Faulkner plays both narrator and character simultaneously. Not only that, but like a rock and roll God he shifts from distortion to acoustic by simply changing characters to establish the mood in his fictional county. Don't let the title, or somebody over thirty fool you, this book has a lot of funny moments which are lost in over literary analysis. I mean,his sense of humor is as dry as a heavy metal concert in Salt Lake City. I guess you could say Faulkner's humor is like that drum solo someone else just doesn't get - but you do! You know? I mean, the drummer's wailing away and you're like, "Yeah," and then Faulkner comes out on stage and with the thump thump thump intonation of his verbal muse, he recreates American dialect to the T, and in his characters lie all of the humor, tragedy, triumph and emotion Americans used to have before taking everything too seriously and worrying what everyone else thinks. That is the beauty of the rock and roll world William Faulkner created. Rock on, Bill. Rock on!
Rating:
Summary: My mother is also a fish
Review: Have you ever been to a rock concert and seen the lead guitarist strap on a double guitar? That's what this book is all about, 'cause Faulkner plays both narrator and character simultaneously. Not only that, but like a rock and roll God he shifts from distortion to acoustic by simply changing characters to establish the mood in his fictional county. Don't let the title, or somebody over thirty fool you, this book has a lot of funny moments which are lost in over literary analysis. I mean,his sense of humor is as dry as a heavy metal concert in Salt Lake City. I guess you could say Faulkner's humor is like that drum solo someone else just doesn't get - but you do! You know? I mean, the drummer's wailing away and you're like, "Yeah," and then Faulkner comes out on stage and with the thump thump thump intonation of his verbal muse, he recreates American dialect to the T, and in his characters lie all of the humor, tragedy, triumph and emotion Americans used to have before taking everything too seriously and worrying what everyone else thinks. That is the beauty of the rock and roll world William Faulkner created. Rock on, Bill. Rock on!
Rating:
Summary: A great starting pont
Review: Having read "As I Lay Dying" and "The Sound and the Fury," this is my favorite Faulkner novel. The writing is exceptional, but the "craft" that Faulkner practices is not as much an onstacle to be overcome as in the other two I have read. For that reason I found this a more accessible novel, and once inside, I was touched by the beauty and scope of this story. For those intimidated by Faulkner's reputation, then, I would recommend beginning with this challenging, yet ultimately rewarding, read.
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